


A Year to the Day

by teatearsandbbc



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 04:32:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teatearsandbbc/pseuds/teatearsandbbc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John visits Sherlock's grave on the anniversary of his death and finds someone waiting for him...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Year to the Day

It was a year to the day after That Day and Doctor John Watson was sitting in a cab carrying a single red rose.  He was going to The Place.  An annual pilgrimage in honor of the man who had so changed his life.  He was numb as the streets of London flew past, silent, staring out the window and trying so hard not to feel.  He had been that way for a year now.  Three hundred and sixty-five days of hell.  Nightmares, worse than the ones he had Before, and that was when he could sleep at all.  The limp had returned.  He couldn’t hold down a job.  If it weren’t for Mrs. Hudson, he would have been starving on the streets long ago.  She had a friend who rented a flat that owed her a favor, so John could stay there for free.  She brought him food and held him when he cried, stroking his hair as he sobbed against her shoulder.  One year. 

The cab stopped and Dr. Watson got out.  He walked through the rows, rows upon rows of cold stone.  Here and there, an angel.  HE had been on the side of the angels.  It seemed like a thousand miles to The Place and it was the hardest journey he ever had to take.  He would have invaded Afghanistan all over again if it meant he didn’t have to take just one more step.  But he had to honor HIM.  He couldn’t let HIM be forgotten, could not allow HIM to fade into the blank pages of history, another fraud among many.  Because he knew that was not true.  Even after all this time, John had faith in HIM.  He finally reached The Place.  That black stone, so cold.  Not unlike HIM.  Unbidden, images flashed before his eyes.  HIS alabaster skin, the shock of black curls crowning it.  HIS long fingers, steepled, those piercing eyes leveled over them.  The eyes which saw so much.  John closed his eyes, his fists clenching, trying to shove away the memories which came flooding in.  That call.  “This is my note, John.”  That’s what HE had said.  “That’s what people do, don’t they?”  Even at the end HIS understanding of human behavior was limited.  “Leave a note.”  And HE had chosen to leave it with John.

“Keep your eyes fixed on me,” he heard suddenly.  The voice was HIS, clear and ringing as a bell.  The same words HE had pleaded, that velvet voice so shaky.  Something inside of John broke.  He couldn’t bear this, couldn’t take it.  His knees buckled and he sank to the earth.  And then he heard it again.

“John.”

He opened his eyes and slowly raised his face.  There before him.  The alabaster skin.  The ebony curls.  Those eyes, the eyes which saw everything.  HIS mouth curved into a half-mocking smile.

“Hello John.”

And then Doctor John Watson fainted.  Just before he lost consciousness, he saw Sherlock Holmes bending over him, a look of concern on his face.

 

 

When he came to, John was on the ground.  He blinked a few times and shook his head, disoriented.  How did he get on the ground?  He had just left the cab, he remembered.  He was walking through the silent tombs to The Place.  He was standing there when he heard that voice.  He froze.  Without so much as twitching a finger, John slid his eyes to the right.  There HE was.  Sherlock Holmes.  Sitting there, fingers steepled just like always, gazing evenly at him.  John scrambled to his feet and Sherlock followed suit, unfolding his sinuous limbs in one liquid movement.

“Feeling better?” Sherlock asked.  John just gaped at him.

“You…you’re alive…” he whispered.

“Obviously,” Sherlock said, seeming puzzled.  He was opening his mouth to speak again when a fist connected with his jaw.

“YOU WERE DEAD!!!” John roared, tackling Sherlock to the ground and punching every inch of him he could reach.  “I – WATCHED – YOU – FALL!”  He punctuated every word with a punch.  Ribs.  Cheek.  Stomach.  Chest.  “YOU LEFT ME ALONE AND YOU WERE DEAD!”  Sherlock had flung his arms up in front of his face and curled up into a ball.  John stopped punching and just screamed at the impossible man lying on the ground before him.

“You were a doctor!” the consulting detective cried.  John’s vision flashed red and he scrambled to his feet, storming off in the opposite direction.  How dare he use those same words?  How dare he bring up the past?  Hurried footsteps told him Sherlock was following him.

“John!  John, please.  I had to.  John!”  The doctor ignored his calls, blinded by fury, stumbling over uneven spots in the ground.  His hands were balled up in fists, his knuckles cut and beginning to bruise.  Sherlock caught up to him and grabbed him by the arm.  John bellowed and whipped around, his right hook catching Sherlock square in the eye and knocking him to the ground.  The shorter man stood there huffing as he stared at the consulting detective.  He was cradling his eye and he looked hurt.  His nose and cheek were bleeding and when he moved his hand to wipe away the blood, John could see his eye was already beginning to swell shut.  A wave of remorse hit him, but his anger was still too deep.  He stood there stiffly as Sherlock got to his feet.

“John?” he said tentatively.  The doctor made no reply, but neither did he walk away.  “John, I am truly sorry.  Please believe me, I had no choice.  Moriarty told me that if I didn’t jump, he would kill you.  I knew that I could find a way to survive, but I couldn’t let him kill you.  You’re my only friend, John.  And you said it yourself.  Friends protect people.  I had to protect you.”  John had begun to calm down, his breathing slowing and his vision beginning to clear.

“But a year, Sherlock.  It’s been a bloody year.  You could have told me.  Whatever it was you’ve been doing for all this time, you could have told me.  Don’t you trust me?”

“I do, John, but there were things I had to do which were – shall we say – distinctly non-angelic.  I couldn’t ask you to help me with those things and Moriarty’s people were watching.  I know he warned them that I might pull something like this.  They’ve been watching you like hawks, waiting for any indication that I had survived.  It took a year for them to become convinced.  Believe me, this was the earliest I could have come back.”  John just looked at Sherlock for a minute.  The eye that wasn’t swollen shut was earnest and full of truth.  Compassion swelled within him.  He cursed inwardly for being so weak, but he unclenched his fists and let out a sigh.

“Let me look at that eye,” he said, his voice resigned.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock said, hastily wiping more blood off his cheek and sniffing.  His nosebleed had slowed, but was still dripping onto his white shirt.

“Sherlock,” John said, his tone indicating that he was not taking no for an answer.  The taller man bent down and allowed the doctor to examine his face.  “Your eye will be fine in a few days, maybe a week.  I’ll need to put some steri-strips on that cheek.  Let me make sure I didn’t crack any ribs.”  He prodded down Sherlock’s side, ignoring his winces.  “You’ll be fine.  You’re going to have some nasty bruises tomorrow.”

“I had expected as much.  Are you through hitting me?” he asked tentatively.

“For the moment,” John replied, breaking into an involuntary grin.  “But what now?  Are you back?  I mean really back, not just telling me you’re back.”

“I’m back,” Sherlock confirmed.  “You’re the first I’ve told, but I’ve finally managed to track down the last of Moriarty’s assassins and…dispose of him.  I can come back.  I’d like to keep a low profile, however.  Only you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade for now.  It’s not exactly a secret, but I also don’t want the press.  Are you ready to go back?”

“Back where?” the smaller man asked, already knowing the answer.

“Where else?” Sherlock said, grinning.  They walked back to the cab, which John had asked to wait.  “The address is 221 B Baker Street,” the detective told the cabbie.  The pair rode in silence for a while.  It was a surreal experience for John.  It was as though the last year had never even happened, like nothing had changed.  He and his best friend, riding in a taxi back to their flat.

“Your thumbs may have gone bad,” John said dully, remembering the bag of severed digits Sherlock had stowed in their fridge last year.

“Of course not.  I made arrangements to have them taken care of,” Sherlock replied in a matter-of-fact tone.  The two men looked at each other for a moment, then fell out laughing.

“I’m not saying I’m sorry I hit you, but god have I missed you!” John said, smiling at his friend.  Sherlock beamed back.

“I missed you too, John.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave comments and suggestions! I can be found on Tumblr at the same username (teatearsandbbc)


End file.
